


Nathaniel's Carol

by Fauna96



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Gen, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, between Golem's eye and Ptolemy's Gate, i mean it could have happened, it's not really an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 09:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fauna96/pseuds/Fauna96
Summary: He wondered if, once upon a time, Christmas had been really like that. Not that he knew much about it, just commoners’ tales and traditions, like exchanging gifts or that story about the flying sledge. Ridiculous.





	Nathaniel's Carol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crabbiey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crabbiey/gifts).



> This is my gift for the Discord Secret Santa for Crabbiey :) It's set somewhere between Golem’s eye and Ptolemy’s Gate, when Nathaniel isn’t already Mandrake, and he’s still Head of Internal Affairs. It’s clearly based on Dickens’ A Christmas Carol but… well, I don’t really think magicians would feel Christmas magic, so I’ve tried.

Nathaniel was doing his best to keep his eyes open. Outside it was already dark, the office was pleasantly warm and he had just had a draining discussion with his djinni, the last one (he hoped) of the day. He would have liked to go home, have a cup of tea and sleep. But he had to wait for Bartimaeus’ report about an alleged spy.

\- It’s Christmas Eve! – the djinni had protested with little credibility. – Or Saturnalia’s, if you prefer. I  _ did _ prefer them, there were a lot of funny alcoholic games that you could do with gladiators… -

The government behaved towards Christmas in the same way it did with all the other festivities: a holiday of some days was given to the commoners, there were lightings in the streets and decorated shop windows, magicians were compelled to work as always. Thank goodness that emergency with the French spy cropped up, thought Nathaniel, or else he should have to put up with the Christmas performance in Richmond. He was pretty sure, though, he wouldn’t be able to dodge Deveraux’s invitation for New Year’s Eve.

Trying to clear his mind, he stood up and went to the window; some days before, it had snowed and the snow had been amassed at the sides of the road, now more looking like mud than anything else. Nevertheless, stubborn kids were trying to give shape to a lopsided snowman. In Nathaniel’s mind came some idyllic images you could see on Christmas cards in kiosks: white and uncontaminated expanses, children on little sledges or snow fighting, and he wondered if, once upon a time, Christmas had been really like that. Not that he knew much about it, just commoners’ tales and traditions, like exchanging gifts or that story about the flying sledge. Ridiculous.

When he turned towards his desk, he struggled to suffocate a scream. There was a man sitting on his chair, and that man should have been dead for years.

Simon Lovelace grinned to him; licked back hair as always, impeccable suit as always, while Nathaniel wasn’t even able to pronounce a syllable to summon a foliot.

\- I find you well, young Underwood – said Lovelace. – Rather, Mandrake. Wasn’t this the name you had chosen? –

Nathaniel felt his mouth dry. At the end he managed to exhale: - You are dead -.

\- I am – replied Lovelace, making a telling gesture toward his body. Just then Nathaniel, even in the half light of the room, realized that Lovelace’s silhouette was somehow…translucent. He wasn’t even sitting on the chair rather than strangely  _ placed _ on it.

\- Are you a ghost? – a better word didn’t come to his mind, even if he knew ghosts don’t exist: most of the times it was distracted demons that gave life to odd apparitions.

He had just thought that when he felt really stupid: of course it wasn’t Lovelace, but an enemy demon come to upset him. It must have been a really clever and cunning master and, above all, he must had been in Heddleham Hall. Moreover, the demon was surly of high level, because his net of sensors didn’t…

\- Stop fretting – sneered Lovelace, literally fluctuating above the chair. – I’m not a demon nor a weird trick. Yes, I think you could call me a ghost -.

Suddenly, Nathaniel found himself facing him, and saw Lovelace wasn’t as impeccable as he remembered: through the skin (or whatever it was) of the face ran a myriad of thin cracks, like a glass on the verge of breaking.

He took a step back and Lovelace followed him, always sneering. – You know, John, before you killed me, I said that you and I were similar. Do you remember? We are, truly. As much as you could be like me -.

\- What does that mean? – croaked Nathaniel.

The cracks on Lovelace’s face widened and split; suddenly, Nathaniel saw only the memory of a face, no more human, and desperate, with dark holes in the place of eyes and the mouth wide open in an endless scream.

Nathaniel stumbled back, on the tip of his tongue the first syllable of a spell, but in the blink of an eye everything was like before.

\- It means this, young Mandrake. It means you’re taking a path from which there is no return, and the destination is very displeasing -.

Nathaniel couldn’t utter a word: he didn’t even realize he had fallen to the ground, his heart beating furiously in his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so scared and powerless.

\- This was a warning, John – said Lovelace, as affable as he was when he was alive. – You’re receiving three visits, tonight. You should listen to them -.

\- And why you, among all people, should warn me of some danger? – finally, Nathaniel recovered voice and rationality. He got up and stared determinedly at the ghost, or whatever it was. – I haven’t eaten in a while and probably I should sleep too: I’m having an hallucination. Or else, my net would have sprung. And I’d be already dead -.

He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, Lovelace was gone. Nathaniel lowered his gaze on his own pale knuckles, he rose it again: nothing.

He sat down in his chair behind the desk e decided it was the moment to put something in his stomach: hunger and chronic lack of sleep were playing bad tricks, without a doubt. For a moment, he thought about summoning a foliot and ask it about potential remaining magic traces, but in his heart he already knew the answer: there was nothing, except for the trace of Bartimaeus’ presence hours before.

He sighed deeply and wondered where he could find food at that time; truly, he would rather sleep a little…

Suddenly, he opened his eyes: in front of him, surrounded by a white halo, there was… there was…

\- I’m dreaming – said Nathaniel out loud, praying it sounded more like a statement than a question, or, worse, a plea. The woman in front of him smiled motherly at him. – I couldn’t say, Nathaniel. Do I look like a dream? –

\- I… you’re dead, Mrs Underwood. I’m sure of it -.

\- I’m not who you think I am, son. It’s you seeing me like that -.

Hearing this, Nathaniel felt a little more confident and less inclined to tears: it was really an hallucination, a projection of his own weary mind. – Who are you, then? –

\- In another time, they would have called me a spirit, but not like the ones you know. I am here to remind you your past -.

\- There is nothing I have forgotten, about my past – said Nathaniel, more brusquely than he had ever talked to Mrs Underwood. – Nothing important, at least -.

The woman smiled in the same way she did when Nathaniel, as a child, said a nonsense, and made a gesture toward the window, inviting him to look outside. Despite himself, Nathaniel obeyed.

Suddenly, he saw no more roads, buildings outside, but he found himself looking into a house, a humble flat, little furnished, inhabited by commoners surely. Sitting on the ground, a toddler was playing with two toy cars, on his own.

Nathaniel turned toward Mrs Underwood, or whoever on her behalf, and rose a questioning eyebrow.

\- Don’t you recognize him? He’s you, some Christmases ago -.

\- I’ve never celebrated Christmas – Nathaniel reminded her – It’s just an occasion as good as another to let commoners distract themselves -.

\- At the time, you were a commoner too -.

At that, Nathaniel couldn’t reply; he kept watching the child playing on his own, until he snapped: - And his parents? I mean… mine? –

Mrs Underwood looked at him with compassion and tenderness. – You don’t remember them. You said that you’ve forgotten what you don’t believe important -.

Nathaniel felt a strange lump in his throat, but kept it down with vehemence. – It’s true. My parents didn’t do anything but give me to the State, and this has been nothing but good for me; I would have been another commoner and now instead I’m a minister. I have power. I’m feared –.

He didn’t receive an answer, except for a strangely melancholy smile; irritated, he looked back at the child (himself) and didn’t find him particularly sad. Actually, he didn’t find anything particular about him, but, after all, what could have been said about a toddler? He wasn’t interesting in himself.

He opened his mouth to say something about that, when suddenly he found himself in the road, in the centre of London, decorated by lights and shop windows particularly overloaded by fake snow and empty gift boxes. He looked around: beside him, there was always the white silhouette looking like Mrs Underwood, but… in front of them walked the real Mrs Underwood, holding… seven-years-old Nathaniel’s hand, completely fascinated by the lights.

\- At that time, you were still enthralled by Christmas, even if you were already an apprentice -.

\- I was still a child – answered Nathaniel, though amazed by how much he had, as a child, true and delighted curiosity. He didn’t remember his time with the Underwoods as particularly happy for obvious reasons, but he found himself wondering why he had removed even that moments of serenity he surely had had.

Then, it was sudden dark; all the lights turned out and the silhouette beside him disappeared too, swallowed up by the night.

\- Mrs Underwood? – called Nathaniel, uncertain. – What’s happening? –

No answer. The roads and London itself seemed disappeared too, and he was as immersed in a liquid darkness, without a way out, until a far little light turned on.

He moved stumbling toward that, trembling like it was a little flame; and it was, a tongue of fire dancing on a dark-skinned boy’s palm, who was watching him and grinning.

Nathaniel stopped. – Bartimaeus? –

\- You can call me like that if you want. But I’m not really him, you know. Haven’t you just sent him outside to accomplish your orders? –

The flame dancing on the hand seemed to widen, enlightening again the road; it was narrow and squalid, not anymore the shining centre of London. The buildings appeared dirty and neglected, even if the windows were all lit up.

Nathaniel turned toward the dark-skinned boy, that was looking around with vague interest. – Where are we? –

\- Oh, no place in particular. In the suburbs, of course – he made a gesture to get Nathaniel closer to a shabby little house, and Nathaniel smelled a something like roast.

Behind not-so-clean glasses, a group of people was laughing and eating, without caring that the decorations were old, or that the pudding wouldn’t have been enough for everyone.

\- So? – asked Nathaniel, looking away hurriedly. – They’re commoners and they’re celebrating, as always. In two days, they will have gone back to their everyday lives, I don’t see how a dinner could change things -.

The boy shrugged. – It doesn’t change them. But they seem much happier that you, locked up in your office reading documents and giving orders to your djinn. Have you realized that the only reasonable conversations you have, you have them with me? –

Nathaniel got irritated. – I have many colleagues which I can have a reasonable conversation with; I’d rather talk to you the minimum requirement, if it wasn’t you that keep interrupting me and babbling and… - he frowned. – Wait a moment. Earlier you said you’re not Bartimaeus. Not really… and now you said ‘me’! What does it mean? What are you playing at? –

The djinni gave him a dangerous smile. – I’m not playing, Nat. Here you are the protagonist. We are inside your head, haven’t you understood it yet? Even if… are we truly? –

Nathaniel, scared and confused, lost his patience: he pronounced in hurry some syllables, but as he was speaking, it was as a void opened at his feet and he fell, in the dark, without seeing nothing or hearing nothing but his scream.

He found himself lying somewhere; above him, a light grey sky. He felt cold, and for the first time he remembered he was wearing just a shirt. He slowly sat and saw that near him there was a girl, her face hidden by long, knotted dark hair.

Nathaniel felt his stomach falling to his shoes. – Kitty Jones? – said in a breath.

The girl turned and her pale face was exactly as he remembered it: it seemed not a day had passed since the golem…

Kitty made a curt nod toward an advancing procession, and just then Nathaniel realized he was in St James Park. He wanted to get up and see what were doing all those people gathered around a… monument? But he found out he didn’t have the energy to get up: he stayed sat down, quivering, near Kitty Jones.

Two men were getting close walking fast, talking in a low voice. Nathaniel was pretty sure he knew them by sight, but he didn’t remember their names.

\- Well, it was just a matter of time – one of them was saying. – He was lucky to get to that age -.

\- And keeping the power too! – added the other one. – But we knew he would end up like that. Ambitious little bastard… -

\- He wanted to bite off more than he could chew: he was already Prime Minister, what did he want more? No, they did good snuffing him out. Only buggers me thinking about all the commemorations we’ll get, and moving speeches… -

The two men disappeared from Nathaniel’s sight, who hadn’t understood almost anything of their discourses. – Who has died? – he asked Kitty, and she made an almost grotesque sneer, that little did suit her face.

Taken by a sudden dread, Nathaniel managed to get up and arrive to the gathering of people, that seemed to ignore his presence. They were around a commemorative monument, dedicated to the Prime Minister of Great Britain and British Empire, John Mandrake, killed traitorously on December 23 rd .

Nathaniel felt his knees weak; he turned toward Kitty, appeared near him. – What does it mean? I’m Prime Minister and… dead? What is this? My… future? And what have I done to be killed? –

Kitty stared at him and spoke for the first time: - I don’t know if this is your future. It’s something very likely to happen. It doesn’t depend on me: I’ve just shown you a version of the story -.

\- I… don’t want to die – stammered Nathaniel. Those words carved in the stone burned his eyes.

Kitty Jones smiled, a real smile this time, the one Nathaniel had never seen on her face. – That is inevitable, Mandrake. You can only decide how to die, don’t you think? –

Something was knocking furiously on the window; Nathaniel, who had fallen asleep with his head on a pile of documents, woke up disoriented and with his head aching. It didn’t get better, of course, seeing a gargoyle grinning outside the window, bringing with it the first rays of sunlight.

With a great effort, Nathaniel got up and opened the window, noticing that between the gargoyle’s horns there was a crown of holly.  

\- Merry Christmas! I see you’ve had an intensive night -.

It was true, realized Nathaniel, but… why? He had stayed in his office… what the hell had he dreamed about to feel like this?

\- Hei… - Bartimaeus was watching him carefully. – Aren’t you asking me about my report? I’ve been out there all the night, for you -.

\- I… yes – stuttered Nathaniel. – But you can report to me tomorrow. You have a free day – he said that by instinct, and he didn’t understand why. Maybe because he just wanted to sleep; maybe because he didn’t feel like working. Surely, it had nothing to do with those stupid red berries making him remember something beautiful, and fragile, for a moment.


End file.
